


Sickfic

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emetophilia, Food Poisoning, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Multi, Nausea, OOC, Sickfic, Vomiting, description of vomiting, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Caveat Lector: This is fairly OOC/ATG(ish), incredibly stereotypical in places, and not as well written as it could be.CW: Vomit (etc.), one mention of creepy crawlies, Gabriel’s borked understanding of the human digestive tract. Mind the tags.Written forthis prompt





	Sickfic

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat Lector: This is fairly OOC/ATG(ish), incredibly stereotypical in places, and not as well written as it could be.
> 
> CW: Vomit (etc.), one mention of creepy crawlies, Gabriel’s borked understanding of the human digestive tract. Mind the tags.
> 
> Written for [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=171880#cmt171880)

Michael, Uriel and even Sandalphon take dainty little nibbles and sips. Not like the Principality Aziraphale, who eats with an abandon that verges on gluttony. But if Aziraphale — ugh — has been eating for years, surely... well, it’s like manna for these bodies. Surely it can’t actually be harmful.

He picks up a little golden cake (how bad can something be if it’s gold on top?) and pops it in his mouth. Chews against the unfamiliar sweetness, chokes it down. Another sweetmeat, cold and white with a shock of syrup, numbs his tongue quite pleasantly.

There are vegetables, too, of all hues and textures. He sticks to the starchy ones in the sauces, even dares to try some of what Uriel calls pork crackling. He regrets asking for the piece of meat Michael gives him as soon as it leaves her utensil: the sinew and cartilage are too tough to chew. He washes it down with some of the coffee (creamy, slightly bitter).

He manages to clean his plate and feels perversely proud of himself. 

****

Two hours later, in the hotel room, he learns why God didn’t give angels dominion over all living things for food. He keeps thinking about all those pieces lying in his stomach, just... ugh, just sitting and digesting in the disgusting juices the humans produce. Ruminating, like cud. Then there’s the cow’s milk he’s just had, churned and curdled. His stomach cramps again, and he groans.

He’s shivering and burning at the same time; no matter how much he tucks the blankets around himself he can’t get warm. It isn’t even angelic fire, it’s just this horrible sensation of alternating heat and chills. Thoroughly corporeal.

“D-d-don’t feel well,” he chokes out, in a voice like gravel. He feels his face heat and doesn’t know if it’s from fever or acute embarrassment.

“I know, sweetheart,” whispers Uriel, running gentle fingers down his belly. The warmth of her bare skin is soothing against his stomach, but it doesn’t stop him gasping the next time another cramp tears through his abdomen.

“Is this what happens to humans every time they eat?” he groans, to no one in particular.

“No, this is food poisoning,” says Michael, authoritative even in gentleness. “I didn’t think you’d have this bad a reaction.” She kisses him hard and he leans into it. They can’t unclothe here, but even the sensation of her lips against his, and Sandalphon just behind him stroking his aching head, is enough to make him feel a little better, to tamp down the humiliation. He can feel the love radiating from them, even in this form.

“I can miracle up some medicine,” offers Sandalphon. Gabriel grunts a refusal through chattering teeth. Human medicines are meant to be taken orally, and he _really_ doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he puts anything else in his mouth. 

Oh, mercy, what if it’s some sort of pestilence? What if there was something _wrong_ with the food? Is that what food poisoning is?

A fresh wave of nausea surges through him; he’s panting and his mouth’s opening of its own accord. He sits up abruptly and burps, then dry heaves over the side of the bed. Michael’s talking into his ear, telling him to take deep breaths. He obeys, swallowing hard until the nausea passes.

“It’s better if you don’t think about it, love,” murmurs Uriel. “Here.” She wraps warm arms around him and trails long, breathy kisses down his neck. It’s an effective distraction. He draws her close and preens his fingers through her wings, traces the gold spots on her face with tongue and grace both. Arousal fizzles in his belly at her sighs, the way she moans around his mouth, her perfume even in this body. 

Then Sandalphon and Michael are there to lick and suck and tweak at his nipples, his ears, the backs of his knees, his thighs, his cock. Racked with gratitude, he basks in sensation and solicitude; at last, he lets himself go and comes all over Uriel’s fingers.

That, he realises, half a second later, was a mistake. He can think of nothing now but his gut-wrenching cramps, which are back in full force. Human stomachs have chains of bacteria in them, don’t they? Strings of white cells, like worms, crawling with disease, all nestled inside their digestion canals. That’s what makes them ill...

“Augh. Aaaaah. F-feels like it’s gonna come back up,” Gabriel moans. The waves of nausea are intense now. Tingling numbness washes up through his legs and he bends forward and dry heaves again. A whimper tears itself from his throat, but he’s too far gone to care about his dignity.

“Ssh, it’s all right,” whispers Sandalphon beside him. “You’ll feel better when it’s finished.” Someone’s caressing his back, someone else is pressing a warm, wet cloth to the nape of his neck. He gulps and clings more tightly to one of the hands entwined with his.

There’s something lodged in his throat. He clears his throat to get it out and gags once, twice, then retches violently until he can’t breathe.

He vomits all over his lap, in one curdy gush. The second and third waves spurt down his torso; the fourth is a trickle. Bile, bile, he’ll never forget the brimstone taste of it. His body feels like it’s trying to eject everything he’s ever even thought about eating.

They clean him up, not with miracles but the human way. He is vaguely aware of the bed being stripped, of Michael taking off his stinking shirt and trousers.  
They wipe his mouth and face with wet cloths, dry the worst of the mess with a towel, then steer him, half-dazed and still shivering with fever, into a bath. He sinks into the warm, lavender-fragrant water, sleepy already, and sends them all blurry messages of thanks.


End file.
